


to bleed and bloom

by homobirb



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Corpse Desecration, Homoerotic Subtext (In the Form of Violence), M/M, Murder, Not Beta Read, Serial Killer Will Graham, Will Graham is Not a Cop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:06:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27933565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homobirb/pseuds/homobirb
Summary: Will doesn’t take his eyes off the man as he walks forward, up the two porch steps, until they’re only a foot apart. “You might want to leave,” he suggests, althoughsuggestsis perhaps too light of a word, his tone barely hiding the threat underneath.“I think I’ll stay.”
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 105
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020, borb's btb 2020 works





	to bleed and bloom

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from [stardew by purity ring](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i1JxAUWz1bc)
> 
> written for the banned together bingo, prompt “anti-logging.” in the same vein as the anti-religion prompt...what’s more anti-logging than brutally killing the person in charge of a logging operation? the homoerotic subtext is just a bonus (although...perhaps it is a lil more than subtext LOL)

Will’s quieter than most in the woods.

He knows intimately how to avoid leaving tracks, to avoid detection and, failing that, how to dispose of his witnesses. Quietly.

So it comes as a surprise when he’s waiting in the bushes, peering through the branches and the leaves, watching the man sitting outside one of the rental log cabins, when the man says, with his eyes closed, expression peaceful, “I know you’re out there.”

Will hasn’t moved in the past twelve minutes, since the man came out of the cabin eight minutes ago and stood on the railed-in porch, a glass of red wine in hand.

He’s not one of Will’s targets, but he could be.

Will’s armed only in the barest of senses, just his fists, dirt caked under his fingernails and carelessly wiped over his face, along with a hunting knife in his vest pocket that he prefers to only use post-mortem. The man, however, is _not_ , dressed in a form-fitting suit, the silhouette sharp on his frame.

The man takes another sip of wine and, in the low light of the porch lamp, it almost looks like blood. “I find it most polite to at least introduce yourself before attempting any harm.”

He’s too calm, too cock-sure, too seemingly in control despite having none, and Will doesn’t like any moment of it. This isn’t a normal man, a normal victim. He’s on another level, perhaps even on the same as Will. Will’s met other predators before, but they were always too full of themselves, killing for the theatrics and for pride rather than necessity, too eager to cast off their mortal shells and claim they have risen above man. But this one seems different, and yet the same, and Will’s not too happy about this disruption to his plans.

Even so, he rises, slowly. There’s perhaps only several yards between them and, the moment Will steps forward, leaves crunching under his hiking boots, the man’s eyes snap to his, a smile stretching on his face.

“There you are.”

He doesn’t respond, instead continuing to walk until he’s barely two feet from the man, standing next to a tree.

“Where’s Reynold?” His voice is rough, thick, weeks of not speaking revealing itself.

“Ah,” the man says, and there’s almost this expression of disappointment on his face. “He’s inside, currently sleeping. The door’s unlocked.”

Will doesn’t take his eyes off the man as he walks forward, up the two porch steps, until they’re only a foot apart. “You might want to leave,” he suggests, although _suggests_ is perhaps too light of a word, his tone barely hiding the threat underneath.

“I think I’ll stay.”

Will doesn’t respond, instead choosing to open the door with his gloved hands, leaving it wide open. If the man in the suit wants to stay, so be it. And, should the need arise, Will would be more than happy to…dispose of him.

Reynold is sleeping, true to the man’s word, laying under dark blue sheets and a white duvet in the second bedroom Will checks.

He keeps his gloves on. As much as he’d love to use his bare hands, the risk of fingerprints being left are too high, let alone the risk of Reynold potentially injuring him and scraping some of his skin cells and trapping them underneath his fingernails for the police to find.

The man in the suit is quick to join him, though he sits on the far side of the room, in a wicker chair, watching Will, the wine glass still in hand. He almost looks otherworldly in the moonlight streaming in from the window, pale skin and yet Will can nearly see the black antlers growing from his head, can nearly see the pure evil radiating from him. And Will doesn’t quite know whether that makes him want to fight the man, or fuck him.

Will’s never had an audience before. Killing is sacred, a necessity, and the utmost dignity ought to be granted to the soon-to-be-deceased, even for awful people such as Reynold. After all, in his death Will will find life, and so will the forest that surrounds them, spared from being sacrificed in a consumerist logging operation until the next threat comes along. But with this, Will can live another day, week, month, and perhaps even years, until either the meat runs out or Will meets his end, perhaps even at the hands of a predator such as the man in the suit.

Even so, there’s a sort of fluttering in his gut, the hair on the back of his neck raising, and he can nearly _feel_ the man’s gaze on him. It’s _wrong_ and _right_ and sets his nerves on fire, and he’s not even got his hands on Reynold yet.

He lightly brushes the exposed skin of Reynold’s neck with the pad of one gloved finger. Reynold stirs lightly but otherwise doesn’t react.

Wrapping his hands around and squeezing is only a natural gesture, instinctual to Will, and he’s prepared, _excited_ , even more than usual, for when Reynold’s eyes pop open and there’s pure _fear_ on his face and he struggles, scratching and clawing at Will’s fingers wrapped tightly around his throat. There’s already red lines of blood beading on the skin, a result of Reynold’s own hurried actions rather than Will’s, and no doubt it will form bruises in the hours after this is over. It barely takes a minute for his eyes to roll back and for him to slip into unconsciousness, especially after Will presses even more firmly on his jugular veins. Normally, he puts pressure on the carotid arteries, but then Reynold’s would’ve been unconscious in seconds and, for some reason, Will _wants_ the man in the suit to see, to enjoy and revel in the struggle. This isn’t death but life rebirthed, and the struggle, the _fight_ proves they’re alive, that they’re beasts, and the pleasure Will has been denying himself for so long bubbles to the surface, the _pure enjoyment_ in killing. It’s a necessity but also a delight and, for once, Will is conscious of the curiosity, the desire to see what would happen if he deviates from his typical methods.

Will’s hands don’t let go until it’s been exactly eight minutes, making complete sure that Reynold’s is completely dead before he peels his fingers off, his joints stiff, his heart racing. Death has _never_ felt like this, and Will’s almost tempted to tackle the man in the suit and strangle him as well.

It must show on his face, for the man in the suit simply says, “I assure you, I would put up a much greater fight than Reynold.”

“Then why are you here?” Will asks, breathless. The blood rushing through his veins has him feeling more impatient than normal, and he pulls out his hunter’s knife, pulling it out of its sheath and barely taking time to appreciate the weight of it before he’s cutting away Reynold’s clothing, pushing the fabric away from his target.

The man in the suit doesn’t comment, not until Will’s got the body sliced open, flaps of skin pushed aside to reach in and cut away the meat he wants, the meat that will last him until he next has to go hunting. He’s already got a bag prepared, to drop the chunks of meat and organs in without preamble or separation.

“If you would, kindly, save his heart for me.”

Will lifts his head, his eyes meeting the eyes of the man in the suit.

Oh. _Oh._

That’s why he’s here. Not only is a predator but a man-eating one as well, and Will feels an instant sort of kinship.

“It’s all yours,” Will says, whisper-soft, and the man stares at Will’s mouth as he says it.

It’s difficult, breaking eye contact, but he does it, going back to cutting chunks out of the body.

His own meat, he’s more than happy to sever, to butcher, keeping it more for sustenance than presentability. But the heart? He keeps whole, carefully cutting around it underneath the body’s ribs, holding onto it like a baby bird he doesn’t want to crush. He even opens up another bag to place the heart into, cradling the organ like a gift, a declaration of love, of acknowledgement, and the gesture feels so intimate but _right._

After all his things are gathered, and the heart’s sealed tightly in the bag on the bed, Will’s ready to leave. Some might say _flee_ , but when does a predator _flee_? No, a predator merely leaves, and that’s what Will is going to do.

The man in the suit stops him, standing up and speaking. The glass of wine in his hand is empty.

“You had a reason for killing Reynold. Why?”

“I-...” Will starts to say, but there’s something in the man’s eyes that stops him, something that looks eerily akin to amusement.

And then he rises to the challenge, feeling emboldened by the mere presence of the heart on the bed. “He was the person in charge of a logging operation that would take place in this forest. His contract would’ve decimated over half the forest, and severely cut down my hunting grounds.”

“Ah. A fitting end for a corrupt man like him.” The man walks towards him, a small smile playing at his lips. “Since you graciously allowed me to watch, may I return the favor?”

“How?” Will whispers, suddenly feeling the intimacy of the situation, and something within him already knows the answer.

“You’ll see,” the man says, less than a foot from Will, a mischievous look in his eyes.

And so, Will stays, taking his place in the wicker chair, not quite relaxed but not tense, either, and he watches as the man dons a clear, plastic suit and nitrile gloves, and then watches as the man turns the body into art, skillfully slashing into the body and arranging the pieces until Reynold lays spread out on the bed, nearly angelic, a ring of his scalp pulled from his head to rest above it like a halo, his arms flung out with steak knives from the kitchen artfully pressed through his palms, a matching chef’s knife driven through his stacked feet into the bed, all the meat and flesh and fat cut away from his chest until the bible from the bedside drawer is visible through them. The man rearranges the leftover flesh and cuts into the bible with the precision of a surgeon until it looks as though it’s a replacement heart for the body.

The last mark the man makes is tear tracks on the body, running a scalpel from the outer corners of its eyelids down to its chin, barely enough time for livor mortis to set in, blood slowly oozing from the cuts.

“It’s beautiful,” Will says in a whisper, and he knows, he _knows_ everything now, recognizes the craftsmanship, the man before him, the _predator_.

“You know who I am,” the man observes. He’s covered in blood but there’s a smile on his face and his eyes are almost hazy with what looks like reverence.

“What do you call it?” Will asks, because there is no point in confirming the obvious and, quite honestly, he is too enraptured right now by the beauty of the corpse, of the offering, and it almost feels like declaration.

“Repentance.” The man in the suit smiles at him, and for a second his teeth look too sharp to be real. “I have a wonderful heart anticucho recipe. Would you care to join me for dinner?”

There’s so many reasons Will should refuse. And yet, what comes out of his mouth is, “ _Yes_.”

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](https://itshomobirb.tumblr.com/) and [my nsfw twitter](https://twitter.com/homobirb)
> 
> just to confirm: yeah the man in the suit is hannibal lecter. i purposefully didnt want them to exchange names bc i wanted to keep this feral sort of energy, this perspective of a predator, and predators in the wild don’t ask for names, don’t exchange pleasantries, etc.


End file.
